


Folie à deux

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: ColdWave Week 2016 [4]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Insanity, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Meta!Len, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, TW: cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6274603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Day 4: Wildcard]</p><p>Folie à deux: "Madness shared by two."</p><p>In which Mick isn't the only wildcard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Folie à deux

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea what to write for this, but I knew I wanted to get this out before my classes today. Let's see how this works out.
> 
> tw: cutting

An hour after getting back to his little corner of Central City, Mick’s more or less patched himself up. Frustration simmers in his gut, leaving him with a sour taste in his mouth. Failed jobs’ll do that to you.

Still, ‘least they got away with _some_ of what they wanted. ‘Least they got away, period. With the Snart siblings safe in their safe-house across town, Mick’s not happy, but he’ll make do. Win some, lose some. He doesn’t like it, but it comes with the job.

Then Lisa barges in without Len and Mick goes cold.

“Please tell me you have decent tequila, baby,” she simpers, like nothing’s wrong, like she didn’t just—“Lenny’s got nothing in his stash, and I’m just _aching_ for a stiff one. Care to help a girl out?”

But Mick’s already snatching his jacket from where he’d thrown it on the couch. “Where’s your brother?” he demands.

Lisa raises an eyebrow, though her shoulders tense with Mick’s posture. “Where I left him. Why?”

Mick hisses “ _shit_ ” and stomps to the door. “Stash’s in the fridge. Knock yourself out.”

“Mick,” Lisa calls after him. Her voice has hardened. “What’s wrong?”

“None of your damn business. Stay here.”

Mick slams the door shut behind him. Only then does he start running.

* * *

People always comment on how wild Mick Rory is. They call him unstable, unreliable—crazy.

But they don’t even know what kind of crazy he’s shacked up with.

Mick bursts into the safe-house, almost forgetting to kick the door shut before shouting, “Snart? Where are you?”

No answer. Fuck. He probably started only a few minutes after Lisa left him alone. Len never does it when his sister’s around.

Mick charges to the bathroom. “Lenny? Answer me!”

He barges in, and there Len is.

“ _Fuck_.”

As always, the expression on Len’s face is cold and dazed, like he’s got no clue what he’s doing to himself. Figures, ‘cause he never remembers these moments—when he suddenly stops whatever he’s doing, walks to the bathroom, and starts slicing open his skin. By now, his left arm’s covered in blood, but he keeps finding the littlest clear spots, or rehashing cuts.

Mick yanks the blade from him and tosses it. In a splash of blood, it lands with a loud _clank_ in the bathtub. Len doesn’t respond; his hand keeps moving, holding an invisible blade, eyes staring through the sink faucet.

Mick snatches him and the first-aid kit he stashed behind the toilet. In seconds, he’s sitting on the floor, Len’s back to his chest, pinning his partner’s legs with his own.

He only pauses in his absent-minded motions when Mick starts wrapping his arm. Gives a slow blink.

Then snatches Mick’s wrist in a vice grip, blunt nails digging painfully into Mick’s skin.

Yet he sounds distant when he says, “No.”

Mick smacks him away with a firm, “Yes.”

“But…”

“But nothin’. Sit still and shut up.”

Len’s head tilts, temple against Mick’s neck. “But,” he repeats, “but if I don’t show him I’m sorry, Lisa will get hurt.”

Mick’s eyes squeeze shut a second. _Fuck_.

“Lisa can’t get hurt.” Len’s breathing quickens. “She—she can’t get hurt, I—I-I won’t let him—”

Mick’s ready for when he struggles. In this state, Len’s just plain weaker than he is.

“I’m sorry,” Len says, gradually getting louder, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time Dad, I swear—look—look I did—”

Then he sees the bandage hiding his cuts. When he does, the screaming starts—horrified, devastating yells that can shake the Earth if he lets ‘em.

But this time, Mick can shout over him, “Lewis is dead, Len! You killed him, remember? He’s gone!”

Stop.

Len’s cold again. This time though, his expression is contemplative. Mick clips his bandages together, but doesn’t loosen his hold. Not until he sees clarity in his partner.

“That’s right,” Len ventures slowly, “I _did_ kill him, didn’t I? Shot him straight through the heart.” A sharp, empty laugh. “Iced him. _Riiiight_ there.” Tapping his own chest.

Starts stabbing his finger at his skin—starts laughing more. Cackling. So hard, his entire body shakes and tears run hot down his face. Mick holds on, not letting him move an inch as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“I shot him!” Len cries, eyes wide and smile manic, “I _shot him_!” like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard, “Put ice right in his chest! Just like _this_ —”

Here it is. Quick as he can, Mick adjusts his arms so one is tucked under Len’s undamaged right. Ice shoots from Len’s fingers, coating the roll of toilet paper. Thank fuck, ‘cause it’d be a bitch if he left broken appliances all over the place. Could get annoying when Len inevitably keeps at him for the damage he’ll think Mick caused.

“Like this, see?” Len continues, leaning forward as much as Mick will allow, “And then—then I _crushed him_ ,” he finishes in a savage, guttural snarl.

To demonstrate, he clenches his fist, and the ice obediently shatters. When it does, he breaks into another bout of laughter.

Shit, he’s so beautiful.

Mick won’t lie: he _loves_ these moments, savors Len’s wild abandon. In the end, they’re not so different. Well, except for the powers. Although, considering they only ever show up in times like these, Mick’s not even sure Len knows he has ‘em.

In a snap, Len’s turned around, straddling Mick’s lap. His fiery grin hasn’t abated one bit.

Smacking his hands on both sides of Mick’s face, he growls, “I broke him. Mick—Mick, I _broke him_ ,” he giggles.

Mick grins right back, “Yeah, Lenny. Yeah you did.”

“I broke him!”

“Shattered his heart.”

Len purrs, rubbing their foreheads together. “I should’ve shoved my fist down his throat,” he whispers, “frozen him from the inside out—but slowly! So he could feel every organ turning to ice, from his flimsy dick to his lungs, allll the way up,” his finger traces Mick’s chest, “up to his heart. And even then!” Len nips the spot on Mick’s shirt, “Even then I’d find a way to keep him alive.”

“Fuck,” Mick rumbles, “you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Len’s shoulders shake with a few more ragged laughs. Mick chases them, trying to feel their vibrations all the way down his own throat. Len tilts his head back, allowing him better access as he keeps them going.

All the while, he’s gasping, “I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.” Mick sucks the spot just underneath his right ear, and those gasps turn into moans of, “Mick, I killed him. Mick…”

When Mick finally reaches his lips, two wolves attack each other. All at once, Len’s biting and clawing at him, Mick doing the same, ripping and tearing at each other without mercy. Len’s ice slices his shirt, shredding into his skin, and while Mick can’t stand the cold, he scratches down Len’s elbow, shoving the makeshift blade closer.

Two kinds of crazy roll across the tiles, interspersed with the smell of smoke, the hiss of ice, and Len’s cackles.

The sad part is, Len bashes their heads together and growls, “Burn me. Burn me and I’ll break you too,” but Mick can’t leave any lasting marks, because Len never remembers.

Then again, Len might actually kill him like this.

It’d be worth it though.

Mick tosses Len over, pressing his face into the floor. Len presses against him, insistent even though Mick’s making sure he doesn’t bleed—not here, anyway. Once he’s loose and clawing at the tiles, he encourages Mick to a brutal pace, moans tearing from his lips like he’d rather be getting fucked on Mick’s cock over anything else in the world and _damn_ but Mick’s right there with him, clutching him, biting across his shoulders and back.

They don’t slow down until they come, growling like bitches in heat. Mick pulls out, tosses the rubber. Len’s quiet now.

Mick’ll make sure to fuck him again, later, so Len won’t be confused by the sudden marks on his body. Can’t do much about the cuts, but—

“Mick.”

Mick doesn’t scare easy, but the sound of Len’s clear, albeit exhausted, tone gives him a start.

Calm blue eyes stare back at him.

“Thank you.”

Mick swallows. “C’mon, Snart.”

Len’s out before Mick scoops him up. On his way to the bedroom, Mick sees Lisa’s jacket thrown over a chair.

A problem for later.

**Author's Note:**

> JUST TO CLARIFY: Mick DOES NOT enjoy Len cutting himself. He enjoys what comes AFTER he's patched him up; namely, when Len starts laughing.
> 
> This is probably the closest to actual smut that I've ever done, besides maybe that one thing I wrote for Scarlet a little bit ago. Hopefully it didn't suck too much ass.
> 
> (Ehhh?)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
